


with all intention to kill.

by rotwound



Series: unread entries of arthur morgan [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, arthur being an angsty boy and writing in his diary, sorry his journal, what a surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27567331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotwound/pseuds/rotwound
Summary: arthur finds himself writing in his journal on the night of his diagnosis in saint denis.
Series: unread entries of arthur morgan [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015023
Kudos: 17





	with all intention to kill.

there was nothing else he could do aside from wait, impatiently, for death to take him. suppose he might've grown sentimental at the idea of it; or perhaps it was the smooth coaxing of a heavy alcohol running through his system; but that night after arthur was diagnosed and he grasped fully what was happening to him, he opened his journal and prepared for this to be his last entry. any day now could be his last. sure as hell wasn't getting any better.  
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'⠀⠀ 𝘪 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘪'𝘮 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘪 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬; 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦. 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘪 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘰, 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘴𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘵. 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘪 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵: 𝘫𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰. 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘯, 𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯, 𝘫𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘺, 𝘮𝘢𝘤, 𝘥𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘺. 𝘪 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺. 𝘪 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦. 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.⠀⠀ '

some men write wills when they know their time is up. others hide their most prized worldly possessions and hope to god no other man will ever find them. arthur — well, he didn't have much to leave behind. the clothes on his back, some money in his pockets, the raven shire hosea had given him months ago now. that was about it, and he figured the camp would sort out who gets what once his time came. if they cared at all to notice. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀  
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

'⠀⠀ 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘨. 𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘥, 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴: 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘪 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘪 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥: 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘪 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱. 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 — 𝘪 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀  
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀  
𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥, 𝘵𝘰𝘰. 𝘪 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯? 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦?⠀⠀ 

𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘦. 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦.⠀⠀ '⠀⠀ ⠀⠀  
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

arthur cups his forehead in his palm, moves his hand down to wipe at the wetness forming beneath cerulean eyes. the pages beneath him were made hazy under the bottles he'd been drinking. three laid empty beside him on the ground, sheltered from the moon by the tree he sat under. but still, he writes; because he was too weak now to ever speak these words aloud. to ever burden another with his thoughts; the idea that he, too, was only human.⠀⠀ ⠀⠀  
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

'⠀⠀ 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘪 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨 — 𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘪'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘪𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘪𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘩. 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘪 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯. 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺. 𝘪 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯. 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩.⠀⠀ '⠀⠀ ⠀⠀  
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀  
disdainfully, arthur lets his journal fall to the ground beneath him. he cares not to close the page, to hide his thoughts when he knew no one should care enough to ever be curious of them. a calloused hand graces over the grip of his holstered revolver; oh, the lives he'd taken with this gun alone. the lives he'd wasted, and he thinks: what was one more? the finality of life. the power of taking away from the world what was yours when the world had already taken everything else. oh, death. the almost romantic serenity in which arthur felt imagining the day this will all finally be over. but he lets his hand fall from the gun, too — not yet. he doesn't know why, just; not yet. takes instead the half-empty bottle of bourbon he'd been nursing and presses it to his lips; prays to black out with each swallow, and he's getting there, almost. the tender kiss of an unconscious mind as alcohol warms every inch of him. soon, arthur thinks to himself. just not soon enough.


End file.
